


For we heard that there was light

by Calima



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calima/pseuds/Calima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events surrounding the unrest in Estolad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For we heard that there was light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lintamande](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lintamande/gifts).



_Y.S. 348. The end of winter._

 

 Bereg has cleared a large square on the hearth. His small, dark hands are smudged from the ashes, and from the charred stick he holds between his fingers. He turns his head at the sound of the door scraping on its hinges.

“Nobody’s home.”

“How unfortunate. I suppose I’ll just have to make myself comfortable, then, until the family returns.”

“Go _away_ , Amlach.”

Instead, he crosses the room, peering over Bereg’s shoulder. “What’s that you’re working on?”

“Fuck off.” Bereg shifts position, hiding the stone from Amlach’s view. His left leg, atrophied, remains at a now uncomfortable angle, and he quickly yanks it under his body. “It’s _nothing._ ”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. Looks like squiggles.” Amlach settles on his knees,  and begins idly twisting Bereg’s tight, dark curls between his fingers. “You’ve got soot on your elbows”

“They’re letters, numbskull.”

Bereg can hear the raised eyebrow in Amlach’s voice. “Really.”

“ _Really._ One of the Fair Ones left a book with father, last they came here, and he never looks at it, but I have, when I was in bed all last summer, and I can make them out well enough. There’s no parchment to be had, certainly not to waste on me, and I’ve no wax to practice with. So I use charcoal – only, if the wood’s too soft to begin with, it crumbles when you try to write with it – but if you choose the right kind, and have a clean space, you can go on as long as you like.”

“I suppose. But, then again, why would you?”

He keeps scratching at the ground with his stick. Amlach has some knowledge of writing, due more to the diligence of his aunt and uncle than any real interest, and can after a time make out a word written many times over. Bereg, Bereg, Bereg. Recalling the reason for his visit, he sits back, and begins to examine the other boy. His friend’s eyes are bright, as always, with suppressed energy, but he notices a glint of moisture around the tear ducts. His free hand is beating a tattoo on the stone. There are telltale red marks on his palms. How long has he been kneeling here? Hours? Finally, he speaks. “Words last. People don’t.”

Unexpectedly, he launches himself forward. Amlach catches him before his forehead can hit the stone. “You don’t want to hurt yourself, do you? There, I thought not. Shh, shh. It’ll be all right. I’m here now. Where are your parents, Bereg?”

“At the funeral.”

“And why aren’t you with them?”

“They said I’d cause a commotion. I wouldn’t be able to sit through the whole thing.” He wrenches himself out of Amlach’s grip.

“Could you have?

“No.” Outside, there’s a light breeze. A low branch scrapes the roof, and the beams groan. Bereg buries his head in his hands. “I’m the oldest, now.”

“You’ll have more brothers.”

“I don’t _want_ more brothers. I want Bregnir back!”

“You sound like a child.”

“I _am_ a fucking child.”

Amlach slowly reaches out, and places his hands on Bereg’s shoulders. When Bereg doesn’t respond, he wraps his arms around him. “I know. I’m sorry. But you’re going to have to be a little bit more than that, now.”

“It’s not fair.”

“Very little is.”

 

_Y.S. 352. There are, again, visitors._

 

“Have you _seen_ the way they look at us?”

The three of them have been left alone in the kitchen of what Bereg can only think of as Zimrahin’s house. Adanel sighs. “Maybe that’s how they look at everyone.”

Bereg rolls his eyes. “I don’t think – “

Amlach cuts him off.  “Maybe they all have astigmatism. Maybe they don’t like the way we smell.”

“Even so  – that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?” Bereg leans forward on his stool, reaching for an uncooked pastry shell on the counter. Adanel smacks his hand away. He jerks backwards, glares. “We’re all right, in their eyes, when we’ve been cleaned and dressed up and taught to parrot pretty phrases in a language we barely understand. But when it comes to anything smelly or messy, they click their tongues and turn the other way.”

“So do I.” Adanel fixes him with a pointed look. “It wouldn’t kill either of you to take a bath now and then.”

“I am deeply – “

“ _Amlach_.”

“ _Deeply_ affronted. Dearest cousin – “ and here Amlach takes her hand in both of his “- that you would cast such aspersions on my personal habits. How would you feel if you were to learn that I have bathed not once, but twice in the past year?”

“Unsurprised.” Adanel steps back, in time to catch Bereg’s wrist on his second attempt. “That’s not for you to eat, it’s for our guests to take back with them.”

 “I was trying to say, they like to indulge us, until we’re old or sick or crippled or dead. And the whole fucking camp smells.”

 “You shouldn’t swear.”

 “Sorry.” Bereg twists in his seat. They can all hear the soft murmer of conversation from the front room, but none of them can make out the words. He starts kicking the base of the table with his right foot. “My father wanted me to recite one of our lays for Lord Felagund, that I’d translated into Sindarin. It was to be last night. He’s staying in our house.”

 Amlach looks over at him. “You hadn’t told me that.”

 “It was to be a great surprise. And I was so pleased with myself, too – I learned the poem from your mother, Adanel, and I even worked the meter so it was just like Elvish verse. Really excellent work.”

 “Why didn’t it happen, then?”

 “Mother heard me practicing. It’s funny – I wrote it out all at once, didn’t even stop to eat. But once I start talking, there you go – no focus. Like the words all turned to steam. You would have liked to see it, me standing up before the great king, and babbling about that time you almost drowned me in that pond we found in the middle of a verse comparing a maiden’s eyes to clear, deep water.”

 “Drown you? I did no such thing. If you hadn’t grabbed onto my hair – “

“Because you _pushed_ me –“

“It’s really not the time.” Adanel gestures at Bereg. “How did the visit go?”

He shrugs. “Well enough, I suppose. Father seemed pleased. I had an awful time. I was taken to meet Lord Felagund, in the end. After dinner. Apparently I am a very intelligent-looking child, and show signs of great promise.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“It was more the _way_ he said it.”

“Oh?”

“Like I was saying – the way he looked at me. I think he’d look at an exceptionally clever dog like that. The kind that does tricks.”

“Tricks.” Adanel’s voice is flat. “Like getting their hands in the pastry dough while distracting their innocent, unsuspecting friends?”

Bereg smiles at her over sticky fingers.

 

_Y.S. 358. History repeats itself._

 

The sunlight in the leaves dapples the forest floor with deep green shadows. The ground is still damp from the first spring rains, and small white flowers are beginning to emerge from the mulch. Bereg sits with his back against a beech tree and inhales. They’re almost far enough from the camp to mask the stink of contagion.

“Anything in the traps?”

Amlach emerges from behind a bush. There’s dirt in his hair. “I think there might have been a rabbit, but it got away.”

“So, nothing.”

“You really have to applaud its initiative, gnawing its way out like that.”

“I’ll do no such thing on an empty stomach.”

“We should at least bring back water, while we’re here. We’re not to draw from downstream of the camp.”

“If we must.” Bereg leans back and stretches. “Hand me my cane, will you? It seems to have rolled away from me.”

“Of course, there you are.”

Neither of them try to get up. Bereg begins to rip up the moss underneath him and shaping it into small, round balls. Amlach sits with his elbows on his knees and buries his head in his hands. “My parents want me to go west.”

Bereg starts at that. “Imlach? Really?”

“I’d stay with Adanel and her family. Just until the sickness passes. Malach – we’re supposed to call him Aradan, now, but I can’t think anyone does – has become a great lord there.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Oh, he’s always been an ambitious bastard.” Amlach smiles cheerfully. “Can’t say I blame him. I’m sure he believes in the cause, fighting the darkness and all that. Practically King Fingolfin’s right arm. Of course, they’re making out like bandits.”

“Think you’ll go?”

“And leave you, Bereg? Not for worlds.”

Bereg smiles, at that, and extends his hands, waiting for Amlach to pull him up. He does, steadying Bereg against his shoulders until he can steady himself with the cane. 

“Hey, Amlach – do you think we could just stay here? It’s probably safer than going back home.”

“It’s not.”

“Two of my sisters are sick.”

“And I wish them the best.”

“We really could do it, though.” Bereg gesticulates wildly, almost collapsing onto the moss. The energy of his movements seems dangerous, contained as it is in his slight frame. “We know how to find food, water – and the weather’s fine. So there’ll be a little rain, but nothing worse than what our grandfathers lived with. I have a few sites in mind for shelter, and – “

“It sounds like you’ve thought about this altogether too much.”   

He turns away and scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe. But don’t you ever want to, just, _leave_?”

“I can’t say that I have.” He takes his hand. “Let’s go home, Bereg.”

 

_Y.S. 365. Unrest._

 

They couldn't fit everyone in the meeting house, and in the end, the council was held in a large meadow outside the camp. Angry young men mill about, reciting polemics to clusters of their friends, while the elders – very few – are quick to establish themselves on clear patches of ground, and begin to hold court. Visitors from Ladros and Hithlum, even Thargelion, still in travelling cloaks, form knots at the edge of the forest, or else hurry to greet their kin.

Amlach seems characteristically uninterested. “You’d think this was the first time they’d seen a great assembly.”

The words bring Bereg, caught up in the flow of a half-dozen conversations, back to himself. “It is, for many of them. For _us_. And it might well be the last, if  we’re successful.”

“And we might well be. I can’t believe – Bereg, we did this. Whatever else happens today, all these people – _we_ caused this to happen.”

“You mean, our words did.”

Amlach smiles. “I seem to recall you having strong opinions on the value of words.”

“Pick the right ones, and history changes.” He snaps his fingers, startling a nearby would-be demagogue. “Just like _that_.”

Amlach gestures at the general confusion. “Looks like history needs a little help.”

“That it does.”

He takes a moment to gauge the crowd. Most of the conversations are in Marach’s tongue, his people being the most numerous. All present can understand it, to greater or lesser degrees. That’s how he’ll address them. Still, best to wait a little longer. Let the petty feuds play out, the joyful reunions run their course. They came to hear him speak. Soon enough, they’ll be willing to listen.

A momentary hush falls on the crowd. _Now_. He clambers onto a nearby tree. _Breathe. This is your element, son of Baranor._ “Friends! – “ He bows “- for I hope that none of us are enemies. We have travelled long and far, through many dangers, in search of a land where we might dwell in peace. And all agree, else we would not gather here, that if such a land exists, we have not found it. The Eldar say that there is a light in the West. We cannot know if they speak truthfully, nor does it matter – they also tell us also that we will not live to see it.” He pauses, taking a moment to enjoy the mutterings of agreement. He extends his hands, quieting the crowd. “Of one thing we are certain – the terror we have fled assails us from the North. And worse than that, our death as a free people. The Eldar promise us peace and safety – for a time. All they ask is that we become their servants. We will not go that way.”

If I asked them to leave now, he thinks, in this moment, all of them would follow me. His speech is followed by a tense silence. He wonders, idly, who will be the first to break it.

It’s his cousin Boromir, who he’d idolized as a boy. They’ve not met in years. He has a son, now, clinging to his hand. “The darkness in the North is the same our great-grandfather faced – even you admit it! And yet you remain ignorant. Will we be any safer if flee? I say not! Rather, it will dog our footsteps, even if we flee into the East and South. And who opposes it? The Eldar! For what purpose were we brought to this land, if not to aid them?”

The last comment almost steals the breath from Bereg’s lungs. He steadies, himself, with effort, before continuing. “We were brought there by our great-grandfather’s feet, _cousin._ Our purpose is our own. And we will stay or go for our own reasons.”

Towards the back, a man shouts something about fire-eyed demons. The crowd is growing restless again, and this time it’s Boromoir who steadies them. “You’re twisting my words because you have no leg to stand on, and you know it.” There is a chorus of harsh guffaws, and Bereg clenches his fist around his cane. Boromir notices, and for a moment appears genuinely distressed. If not distracted. “My apologies. Even so - we will not be safe until the dark king is vanquished. Our strength may lend the Eldar material aid. And, truly, they are wiser than us, and fairer, and have taught us many things.  Who are you, that you disdain to serve them?”

Bereg shakes his head. “A man of the house of Balan. Nothing more. This isn’t about the Eldar.”

“You were the first to mention them.”

Many nod, at that. He’s losing them. “I cannot deny what the Eldar have done for us – any more than I can ignore what they have done _to_ us, and may yet. Look at your son! Does he know the Valar better than his own gods?” He smiles at Boromir’s shocked expression. “I thought so. Will the dark king be defeated in his lifetime? What about his children’s, or his grandchildren’s? And even if we win – will there be anything left of us? Is this battle worth the price, if we cannot mourn our dead in their own tongue? For how many hundred years must our people die, for such a reward?”

“As many as they must, to rid the world of darkness.”

Bereg steps forward, steadying himself. His arguments are useless.  The crowd is angry, restless, ready to be carried away – but only in the moment. Everyone here must have made up their minds long before. He is filled with a momentary and overwhelming disgust for this farce of an assembly, for his cousins, deafening themselves with the clatter of their own swords, for himself, and his empty words. _I wanted my moment in the sun. I’m no better._ His response is so soft that only those standing near him can make it out.  “'Let the Eldar look to it! Our lives are short enough.”

The sun is setting, and the meeting is beginning to disperse. They’ll reconvene tomorrow. Amlach helps him off his stump. “That could have gone better.”

Bereg laughs, for what feels like the first time in years. “You don’t say.”

“It’s alright. You’ll do better tomorrow. People like you, you’ve got charisma.”

“I felt like I was going to collapse, up there.”

“You almost did.”

“Amlach?”

“Yes?”

“Promise you’ll be there tomorrow. I might need you to catch me.”


End file.
